


blood on the teeth like a cannibal smile.

by skeletonannie



Series: another apple into pieces [7]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Absolute Trash, F/F, Gen, Performance Artist Danny Lawrence, also, lawstein brotp, lawstein is a sweet budding flower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:52:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3297587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletonannie/pseuds/skeletonannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>hollstein/lawstein; carmilla is realising what she's gotten herself into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood on the teeth like a cannibal smile.

You’re not sure when it happened, but it did, and now you and the BFG are—are _friends_.

            You’ve never really had friends.  After you were turned, the idea of ‘friends’ became this quaint little human notion that Maman deemed childish and ‘beneath her diamond girl,’ so. You were more or less limited to seducing young beautiful girls so a light could eat them, and hanging out with your mom; occasionally you would meet another vampire that didn’t make you want to stake yourself, and that was nice.  But—few and far between.  And when you say it like that, the last 334 years seem like a waste, because—and you’d never say this out loud, but—having friends is really nice.

            You didn’t mean to have this happen, though.  But you suppose spending so much time with someone as—as _good_ as Laura had to eventually leave a mark, so. You’re not complaining, because now when you taste heavy copper on your tongue or you feel the splinters in your palms, the crooked wrists, you can press your cheek into Ginger Thing 1’s soft fur and—yeah.  Yeah. Friends are nice.

 

//

 

 

Laura has insisted on turning Wednesday Pie Date into Wednesday Pie Date featuring An Absurd Amount of Netflix. Which is how you find yourself squeezed onto your and Laura’s bed, the overgrown spaniel’s legs half on top of yours and dangling obscenely off the side and Laura pressed tightly into your side. You have to keep reminding yourself that you can get out at any time, that this isn’t confining—this is friendship, this is cuddling, this is _normal_ —but it’s not really working and you can feel your palms stinging.

            Laura presses further into your side, her arm draped over your tummy and her forehead on your neck, and kind of sighs, and it _should_ be so cute, but instead your stomach swoops hard and you have to swallow like four times.  Your arm tightens against Laura’s shoulders and she kind of squirms. Danny glances over with a mouthful of popcorn and smiles, kernels falling onto your lap.

            “Jesus, Clifford, you overgrown trash heap,” you manage to groan, even though your throat feels tight.

            She just smirks around more popcorn, shoving a handful into your face. It crunches against your chin and nose and for a split second you see nothing but hazy red, and then Laura presses her hand hard into your tummy and there are bombs ringing in your ears and you curl away from Laura and press your fists hard into your eyes.

            Lurch gets up slowly from the bed, pausing the like twelfth episode of _Doctor Who_ , before pulling the blanket from your shins and pressing Laura away from you. You can feel Laura fluttering next to you so you focus on that, and then Shaq is saying something completely idiotic about _space garbage_ and Laura is laughing and—

            Stars burst in front of your eyes when you pull your fists away. Laura tugs on your ear gently, says “Hey, pretty girl,” kisses your shoulder, so you roll into her and blow a raspberry into her neck.

            “No!” she shouts, but she’s laughing, and then Stretch is picking you up and tickling your sides— _so_ not punk rock, but you snort a laugh out anyway—and you’re flailing, trying to stop her hands. Laura laughs and tickles Danny, who _guffaws_ and drops you onto the floor.

            “You useless Brobdignanian mutt,” you hiss, but you’re still laughing so it comes out far less scathing than you intended.

            She hefts Laura up and tosses her on the bed, hitting her with a pillow before turning to you with a wicked smile.  “Think you can take me in a pillow fight, Dead Girl?”

 

//

 

 

There is pillow carnage _everywhere_ , and Laura is half-pouting on her floor surrounded by the scraps of her bedding.

            “How,” is all she mutters, before flopping back onto the hardwood with a _thump_.

            Danny is picking cotton out of her teeth.  You are nursing a bloody nose.

            “Go big or go home?” Danny shrugs with a hopeful grin, but a loose thread is dangling from her lip.

            “Go home; I like that idea.  Say, don’t you have like a massive lodge full of over-eager puppies to attend to?”

            Danny rolls her eyes, but then checks her watch.  “Oh, balls, I totally do,” and then she’s ruffling your hair and swooping down to kiss Laura’s cheek before tramping out the door in a six-foot flurry of red hair.

            You watch her go with a weird feeling that you’re slowly starting to understand is fondness.

 

//

 

You were eighteen when you were murdered.

            Laura is young and beautiful and clean, only a few ghosts huddled in her chest, and you don’t want to destroy something so good.  So sometimes you leave, and you stay away for a few days because your head is buzzing and your palms sting and you aren’t good enough to deserve someone like Laura holding you when you wake up screaming.

            Sometimes your stomach burns, as if the scar running the length of it was still open, still bleeding, still eviscerated on a ballroom floor. Sometimes blankets are too heavy, sometimes bare feet are too light; sometimes you can’t feel your hands.

            And sometimes, you didn’t die cold and alone and covered in blood, staring at your younger sister as she tried to hold herself in, one tiny hand covering the torn mess of her chest.  Sometimes, you are eighteen, and in love, and a horrible cliché, and sometimes, that is Alright With You.  You feel lighter, like maybe laughing is okay, like maybe that coffin was just a very bad dream.

            And Danny has ghosts too, and sometimes they snap at her heels. She lives in darkness, she lives among shadows, and this isn’t the place where good things happen; so when she presses her snout into your side with a soft whine, you bury your fingers in her scruff and breathe very slowly, because maybe this time you’ll make it out alive.

 

//

 

For some godforsaken reason, Kim Possible has entered the two of you in a photography contest Perry has organized on campus. You had tried to vehemently decline, but Laura had given you A Look, told you to ‘get more involved, Carmilla, it won’t kill you,’ so now you are holding a rubber snake as Cujo shoves plastic fruits down your leather pants, which—you wear leather pants for a _reason_ , because they make your ass look 100% bangable; _not_ to have some overgrown bulldog jam fake fruits down them to make some shit feminist statement.  But here you are.

            “Drusilla, could you, like, I don’t know, _try_ to help me here?” She’s struggling with a pear near your waistline.

            “No,” you drawl, leaning smoothly against the bricks behind you. She-Ra growls and tries to hook her fingers into your belt loop, dropping the pear and the 3 bananas in her hands.

            “Just—just stay _still,_ Corpse Bride, and this will go a lot faster.”

            You raise an eyebrow, “No it won’t.  I’m wearing leather pants.”

            “I _know_ you’re wearing leather pants, assmunch.  I just had my hands down them, for god’s sake.  Just—I don’t know, unbutton them for a second or something.”

            “Scooby, if you wanted to get in my pants, all you had to do was ask.”

            She splutters briefly before slapping your thigh very hard. “Shut up, Bagheera; just. Would you _please_ be more helpful?  I really want to win.”

            With a very heavy sigh, you push off the wall and unbutton your pants. “Hand me the pear,” you say, rolling your eyes at least 4 times as you shove the pear, 2 bananas, and an orange down your pant leg.

            “Thank you,” it sounds like it pains her to say it, but she does, so you shrug.

            “This ‘statement’ better win, Pup,” you grumble, trying to do up your pants while a plastic banana pokes your hip.

            Crookshanks looks immensely pleased with herself when she says, “Oh, it will. It _definitely_ will. ‘The Garden Of Eden: the Greedy Lie’ will be a hit with the Women’s Studies department, _and_ we’ll finally vindicate Eve for taking the blame.”

            You throw the snake at her.

 

//

 

 

You win. 

            It almost would have been better if you had lost, because now Stretch is _impossibly_ smug, and she won’t stop calling you Saint Eve.  Laura loved the shoot so much she insisted the Ogre make her a few prints, so now when you are trying to go down on your girl, if you look up at the wrong angle you see yourself with an absurd amount of plastic fruits shoved down your pants and a plastic snake in your mouth.  It ruins the mood but Laura will _not_ let you take it down.

            “You look so good, Carm!  Like—like a renegade, or something.  Very rugged, but very feminine.  I love it,” and you can’t exactly say no to Laura—especially when she bites her lip and strokes her hand down your neck.

            “Can we at least turn it around when I’m trying to go down on you, Laura, because I do not want a repeat of Tuesday.”

            She laughs and rolls her eyes, flipping the frame down and pulling you into her. “Fine,” she murmurs into your mouth, and her hands run under your shirt, her nails against your back. You sigh into her mouth and fist your hands in her hair, moaning as she bites you in answer. Your hips push up in to her and she’s kissing across your chest, her hand toying with the seam of your pants.

            “Hey, babe?” she hums into your sternum, her mouth hot against your thrumming skin.

            A breathy _‘what’_ is all you can manage, and you cringe when she chuckles. Her fingers press into you over your jeans and she nips at your collarbone, sucks on your pulse point.

            Her hand pops the button and then she’s kissing down your stomach, stopping at your hips with a—oh no.  Oh no. It’s the _massive_ smile she gets when she’s pleased with herself.

            “Hey, Carm?” she asks you, her hands stilling against you. You groan and huff out another _‘what,’_ try not to grind your hips up into her face.

            “Is that a banana in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?”

            You’re going to kill that filthy mutt.

 

**Author's Note:**

> lawstein brotp is the most important thing to me.
> 
> shout about things w me siimulacra.tumblr.com


End file.
